Lost in the crowd

I couldn't help thinking about the enormous amount of (new) films available for public consumption seemingly each and every week. Sure, we can categorize and discount many-either because of personal preference or simply eliminating those made to be candy for the eye or brain. But each week there are a huge wave of new ones for consideration.
"Art" films now seem to also be a dime-a-dozen. Increasingly, audiences want more to the point where none of the films (to this add music, visual art, theatre, ad nauseam) seem to stand out, to be able to be heard among the "madding crowd".
This seems to me to be leading to a "numbing (note the "n") down" of our senses. I do not propose to know a "cure"-perhaps it's in reality a very good thing. But it seems to me that there are so many fish in the cinematic ocean out there that many good efforts are simply lost in the crowd. Unfortunately, i find this true with the other arts as well.
Are these the effects of population explosion? Advanced technology that allows greater access to tools?  Social media laughing at the very idea of privacy and/or exclusivity? Finally, is this a good or a bad thing?
As a member of the old school and approaching what I suppose to be the geriatric, i mourn the loss of what has gone missing in the crowd…but i'm not sure that that matters anymore.

Waiting for Johnny

Could the pain be any greater if the one hurting were human and not our dog?
The guilt I feel when he is asleep, in between seconds of painful motion
or hideous wavering, when he's too stoned from the drugs to even move-that guilt is all my own…Endlessly questioning whether there is anything more I could do for him. I do not deserve this easy rest while he has simply dropped into an exhaustion from his efforts to control his pain.
And the questions about my intent-are the drugs to keep him placid and numb or for me to feel as if I'm really doing something for him?
I remember sitting next to my father as he finally stopped breathing-that seemed so quick, so easy (the nursing home was quick after that last breath). Laura and I take turns sitting as Johnny ekes out yet one more breath, hoping against hope that there may be a way to save him, that we will not have to say goodbye.
The tears come easily at first, but gradually, after you feel like you've scraped your guts to relieve the pain and held your breath and whimpered your loudest until no sound or helping person comes-then, comes the dryness. Empty. The mourning is played out in sobs more concept than real.

Nan comes with her needles and stretcher. I'm too goddamn old to dig him a good grave. Johnny is whisked away-no, only his body is taken. He still fills this house. He stands outside the glass door-somehow, Johnny is once more a bouncing puppy, eager to be in our arms again.

And today there is snow, which he loved to roll around in upside down in order to grab bites of the stuff.

Drawing

I love books. I love empty sketchbooks.
Simply put, i've always found books to be a "down the rabbit hole" proposition-In other words, an adventure. Happening by chance upon The Hobbit when I was very young ( I had time to explore the library whilst my Dad would stack up new detective novels) certainly added to the excitement of possible discoveries between paperboard covers.
Cracking open or even purchasing a brandy-new sketchbook has had a similar feel, but I feel as if this has lately fallen short for me. I do not put together great drawings or even decipherable notes. I have sketch-book envy when it comes to this, thinking almost anyone else could put together a better bunch of inchoate scribbles than me. I do think about destroying these books, so as not to have a messy trail left behind me.

Starting out

After reading an article that cited several artists' beginnings-the moments when they first knew that they were going to be in the "creative" field, I'm a bit blank.

Here's several incidents I remember:

Making something out of clay in a pre-kindergarten special session, accompanied by both Mom and Dad. After splashing some primary color on this (and having the notion that I didn't know WTF I was doing), this object came home in a shoebox. The diorama has always been of interest to me and here I am, eons later, still working within the confines of the box…calling Sigmund….

A class session in Junior high School (aka 7th or 8th grade) in which we looked at Bridget Riley's OP Art paintings and were asked to do a graphic impression of same. Turns out, I was able to draw some fairly concentric rings. This, in turn, won me some praise from the instructor. Again, I didn't know just what I was doing or why I was doing it, but it got me some sorely-needed approval.

A set of watercolor paints was purchased for me at J.J. Korvette's. Dunno if I asked for these or if this was my Dad's desire to see his son become the artist he wanted to be (but was severely torn about, as later, when things got more serious for me and I wanted art school, not college). In true form, I was given some sheet rock panel scraps to paint on, made a mess (but a mess with intention: a seascape) and forgot about the watercolors (I'm still fairly allergic to this medium).

Wish I'd some beautiful/funny/tragic story to tell about my first steps towards becoming an artist, but this is the best I've got-pretty boring, yet all true.

dream

The bloodstone ring.
The Yellow L.T.D.
Outdoor showers with sand and sunburn.
Jessie.
The attic where we found the top hat and tails
from some gone era.
Some picnic table by a forgotten Jersey lake.

Jeanie was back with me last night, like some old ghost.
She, smiling her smile, seemed to forgive everyone for her
bouts with Lupus and early death.
The dream left me with tears in my eyes.

Her visitation  preceded by Cara-she treated me
like a stranger when i stumbled into the old house,
filled with odd folks
who did not want me there, but still filled with my artwork.
I thought I had a right to be there, but was
told the opposite. We met, amongst these strangers,
who wanted me gone. We strolled around the house,
recalling some good from our past.
I left her by the strange stairway created by a hotel
that somehow got built almost on top of the old place.